My Master (intersex x woman)

Chapter 20- Annabelle (Part 3)

The Princess came to a halt outside the large, oak door that led to her quarters. She leaned against it, forehead touching the wood ever so slightly, biting down on her lip almost nervously. The steely demeanour she'd worn all day was now shed, leaving her true self: a woman deflated and defeated.

Annabelle breathed deeply, and pushed the door open.

"Darling," she walked towards the large bed. "Won't you come on a walk with me today?"
The taller woman already knew the answer, but the smallest part of her wished it would be different.

There was an extended silence. Annabelle took it as an opportunity to sit beside the lump of a woman hidden beneath the comforter. "Victoria," her voice was just above a whisper. "Please...Say something."

"Not today."

Frustration clawed its way up from the dark pit Anna had been keeping it locked away. "We can't keep doing this." She reached for Victoria's arm, gently rubbing the exposed skin. "I know it hurts; we are both hurting my love but you cannot continue to push me away."

There was more silence. The voice at the back of Annabelle's mind grew loud and teasing. It insisted that she'd been the one to blame for the events that transpired well over six months ago. She'd caused the death of her mother—of her unborn child, she was responsible for it all. It was all your fault, you ignorant twat. You should have killed him when you had the chance.

Burning behind the woman's eyes pulled her away from the thoughts that threatened to consume her alive. She would not cry, she'd cried enough. Annabelle pressed her lips against the younger woman's forehead, savoring the feel of her skin. "I'll be in the study. I love you Victoria." This time, she didn't wait for a response before leaving the room.

Over six months ago, on that day, Victoria had been rushed into the capable hands of the best maesters in the Capital. She'd lost so much blood that she passed out, and was carried in the arms of her wife to rescue. Annabelle paced the room as they worked on the younger woman; towels full of blood tossed aside and maesters screaming orders to their assistants. She couldn't die. Even the thought held so much uncertainty, as Annabelle also thought her mother couldn't die, but she did.

"Princess," the master's voice pulled her away from her thoughts. "We cannot save them both. And at only seven months, we're unsure of the child's future."

"It is not a question." Annabelle stared deeply into the man's eyes, her own fiercely glowing red. "You save my wife, you save Victoria."

Annabelle didn't know at the time of that decision that regardless of what they'd done in that room, she would be losing them both. When Victoria came to, she was simply a shell of her former self. Grief stricken, and filled with shock. Anna tried, through her own grief to pull her wife from the darkness that threatened to swallow the woman whole. She refused to eat, she spoke as little as humanly possible, and she did not leave their room.

The days following the death of the Queen was complete mayhem. The King was inconsolable, and Geoffrey more revolting than he'd ever been. The news had been a shock to all the land. The Queen should have been immortal after all, they all were; and so, hearing someone had murdered her was beyond the comprehension of many. Lockheed and his witches were in possession of something that could kill immortals within minutes and that is what truly triggered the war.

The Royal pack was readied, the vampires that served under the King were summoned and the war ensued. The witches expected them to retaliate, and did what they could in preparation—they'd assumed. A few of their men were lost, but all the witches were slain. A ferocious battle transpired between the King and Lockheed. Annabelle, along with the king's guard and Alpha stood aside, watching the brutal fight play out. Lockheed casted many spells and chanted incantations before relying on his own physical strengths, none of which saved his life. She watched as her father devoured the man, ripping him apart at the neck. A fitting end for the devil himself.